A Genuine Wannabe

Every day when you come home from work, you plop down on the couch, TV on and muted, and immerse yourself in your medical books. One after another, until you pull your laptop onto your lap and continue your book on Skin: A Truly Amazing Organ. Like you know anything about that. You’re only a nurse for God’s sake. A nurse. And you only have been for the past twelve years. Take a hint already. God.

There is nothing, nothing that can tear you away from your work in the evening. I have long since learned how to feed myself, even to cook, although it’s nothing fancy, mainly just pasta and soup. And even more impressive, I’ve learned how to do so without making a sound. If you knew I could cook, you would guilt me into making you dinner, and food, besides using the bathroom, is the only thing you’ll get up for. All day you’re at work. All evening you’re at work. At night…well, look at that, another thing that will make you get off that infernal couch. Sex. Maybe I don’t give you enough credit.

Every once in a while, and sometimes it takes me weeks to build up the courage to, I’ll walk timidly up to the foot of your couch, and take a deep breath, a really deep one, and still there is only just enough air to whisper the only words I say to you. Hi, Dad. And your response is always the same. You’ll hurriedly snatch a ten from your wallet and fling it at me along with a slurred Go get something to eat/ see a movie/ buy some candy/ get some new paints etc etc etc. An excuse is what it is. So you don’t have to look at me. It’s all an excuse. Cause I look like mom. Same eyes, same hair, same lips and teeth, same dimple when I smile, same button nose with a smattering of freckles. We’re the same person to you.

But what am I saying? You don’t care about mom. You don’t love her, miss her. You’ve got yourself a brand new wife—who lies in bed all day missing you and lies in bed all night missing you—and a brand new house—the dishwasher’s broken and the marble floors are like ice—and a brand new brand new brand new…not me. Oh no, I'm the same old, same old. See here’s the thing. You can get rid of her but you can't get rid of me. I'm here. I'm here.

I miss her. It hasn’t been that long, you know. Two years. It feels like ages. And for me, I suppose it is. After all, it’s a fifth of my lifetime. Not so long for you though. So shouldn’t it be reversed? Shouldn’t it be you who suddenly cries out in pain, startling those around you, who then give you weird looks and start to avoid you? You who sees her everywhere, you who feels guilty that we’ve moved on, but we haven’t! I haven’t. Shouldn’t it be you who still loves her?

Do you love me? Can you love me, when I remind you so much of her? Do you avoid me because you don’t love me, or because you do?

Does it matter?

I love you I think, as much as I hate you. I think I really do. I’ll go talk to you now, I’ll do it! I’ll tell you, I will, I’ll…!

Hi Dad.